Once, along the way
by fiery frost
Summary: Things happen in life to make you change the way you view a person. Yohji centric, twoshot. Updated with chapter 2, complete.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Weiss Kreuz in any way.

Part: 1 of 2

Archiving: Please ask.

**Once, along the way**

_by fiery frost_

His violet eyes are closed, and the fiery strands of hair lie darkly against his face, casting shades of greyness across the pallor of his skin. He breathes, barely. The world is spinning abruptly, as I hold him against a backdrop of backseat fear and frantic voices in front.

I breath. Watch him.

The slow blooming of redness across his chest so surreal, his scent – faint peach shampoo and soap and cinnamon – in my nose and suddenly I have buried my head in copper strands and he's warm-living-there – thank God.

- - -

It's later, and there is nothing left in my head but the blank whiteness of the waiting room. There are chairs there, cool plastic rows and a coffee dispenser. It comes in little containers that can be stacked. And a nurse comes in to exclaim at the pile I've collected, all crushed white plastic and coffee drops.

He's still in there.

- - -

There are noises, coming closer. A babble of curt, staccato sounds emerges from the room where he's in as the doctors leave. They look normal – minds already moving on to their next patient.

I guess he's alright.

And the feeling of overwhelming lightness that accompanies the thought makes me sway on my feet, the effect of too much coffee and too many cigarettes on an empty stomach finally catching up with me.

Collapse into one of the hard plastic chairs. Breath; just breath.

- - -

I wake to gentle hands on my shoulder. The sheer innocence of the touch is all that prevents me from lashing out with silver strands, nerves roughened and sensitized to a dull pain.

She's young, wide eyes and the barest hint of makeup combining to make her look even younger. She's saying something now, and I have to focus, bring myself away from the untainted purity of her eyes.

Can't sully her, too.

- - -

I am shooed, gently, firmly, from the room. Told – ordered – to take a rest. I do, pliable as the silver strings I wield. She smiles at me, and I see the shadow of a chance of redemption in her youth; to drown the splatters of red on carpeted floors and white walls in the blank canvass of her body.

It works, you know. Every night I drown myself in the whirled maze of oblivion they bring, I forget a little more. Lose myself a little more.

Maybe I'll even forget who I am.

That'd be nice.

- - -

I pace, languid footsteps uncommonly hurried as I stride across the grass of the park beneath the grey shadow of the hospital. I fancy I can see his window amidst the uniform squares bordered by white lace.

I like to pretend we have a connection somehow, forged by the blood and the tears and the guts of the people we kill. I like to pretend, because nothing is real.

- - -

He dreamt of Asuka that night, of her lifeless corpse and Neu's face as she tried to kill him. She spoke to him, the old Asuka – the dead one – and the new, young-girl-pretty and as sweet as Snow White's apple; a strangely pleasing disharmony of overlapping voices.

He woke up to disjointed recollections and the smoke-stained ceiling, feeling as though he'd forgotten something important.

- - -

I went to see _him_ again, skiving off work with a charmer's grin and the common refrain of a 'date' on my lips. They laughed and waved me off, long since inured to my irresponsible ways. Yohji the playboy, the slacker, the one you entrusted _nothing _to if you wanted it done.

But pointing me at a target… that was alright.

- - -

Aya's room is silent and bare, as are all hospital rooms. He is asleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest calming the half-named fears within me.

People always say that you look different when you sleep, vulnerable and without daylight defenses. But Aya still looks like Aya, steel-wrapped silk and pale skin. My hands are outstretched before I know it; barely stopping myself when I see the wire-scarred darkness of fingers nearly touching a white cheek that is lightly stubbled. So he /is/ a redhead.

I chuckle softly at the inconsequential thought, then trail my hand through his hair. It's likely the only time I'll ever get to do so without sustaining life-threatening injuries in the process.

Reviews would be great.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Weiss Kreuz in any way.

Part: 2 of 2

Archiving: Please ask.

**Once, along the way**

_by fiery frost_

They tell me he's awake now. I feign a hangover, and they leave me alone. Somehow, somewhen, an Aya was created in my mind, one who smiled at me once in a long long time. That Aya smiles at me, even.

I miss him, miss dreaming of him waking and looking up at me with unshuttered eyes.

And the reality is so much worse. All the _little _things, like the precise angle he cocks his head, the way a little crease mars his forehead as he reads the morning paper – they _all _make me think of what I cannot have.

They all make me oh-so-_aware _of the solid-thereness of the _real _Aya, his presence a warm – distant – presence near me in the shop.

- - -

"Do you hate me?" A hurt Aya asked from behind Abyssinian's eyes when he had been awake three days and seen not hair nor hide of Balinese. His eyes were split and Yohji thought he was falling into twin violets – cold and hurt and -

He turned away, unable to answer in any way Aya would understand. The redheaded assassin said emotionlessly, "I'll partner with Ken, then."

He choked, too lost in a haze of emotion-confusion to refuse, and secretly glad that the sight of Aya descending from the manic thrill of battle would no longer haunt his dreams.

- - -

I dreamt of him that night, no longer the doll of death nor the creature of fantasy he used to be. He was a simple man, human even; strange coloring in a mosaic of people, of faces and the words 'Do you love me?' on his lips.

- - -

Strobe lights – flash of blue, read and green – and the glitter of outfits sequinned, besparkled and barely there. Smoke, and the smell of hard liquor that tries – and fails – to cover up the faint odor of sour vomit and stale urine in the back toilets. Yohji was at home here, slipping amongst the dancers with ease to claim a spot on the floor for himself. Then he started to dance. It started simply, a gradual loosening of his body as he relaxed into the music, absorbed its beat. Soon he had cleared an admiring circle around himself as he danced with his imaginary Aya.

And it was then, relaxed and at home in the anonymity of that club, that Yohji finally admitted it to himself.

He'd fallen in love with a comatose Aya over the past three days.

- - -

Later, when the night had begun to lighten into the first pale shades of gray, he stood at Aya's door and stared at the pattern tangled hair made on his face. The slackness of his face and the relaxed posture of his body looked just as they had in the hospital, the resemblance clutching his heart in mute hands of terror.

Then Aya sighs, and turns over, murmuring something incomprehensible under his breath, and Yohji breathes again.

- - -

He lost something, years ago. Misplaced it, forgotten what it is or where it used to be. Can't even remember what – only that he wanted it so badly.

He caught a glimpse of it in Asuka's face. Only she's gone now, and never coming back. And in _his _face too, it appears, that mysterious thing, like flashes of quicksilver and moonglow.

He will not lose his chance again.

* * *

A/N: This was something created over days, with each snippet encapsulating a different mindset of mine.

I'm deliberately leaving it open-ended. Yohji may, or may not end up with Aya. He doesn't know if it's love, or not, only that he _wants _it. It's not just lust, and that's what makes it difficult, I think.

I'd love to know what you thought of it.


End file.
